Mouthwash

March 3, 2019 § 2 Comments

I had a good ride this morning. It started at 7:00. It was dry as a bone despite the weather forecast of 100% rain probability. Stupid weather forecast. If you live according to that crap, you miss so many great things in life.

200 yards into my ride it began to rain very hard. Thankfully I didn’t have a rain jacket so I got soaked, but the first few seconds of the ride were awesome, which goes to show how you need to have the courage to ignore the weather forecast, which is always wrong.

I rode with Kristie for an hour in the pouring rain. She hadn’t brought a rain jacket, either. The Wheatgrass 2.0 was supposed to start at 8:00 AM, pointy-sharp, and four other idiots actually showed up.

One of them was Evens Stievenart. He is one of the best riders I have ever had the pleasure of getting shelled by. He was angry at the rain and took it out on us. We had to go full gas to hold his wheel getting up and over the golf course. His rear tire shot a continuous plume of oil-infused, chemical, filthy water, mixed with grit, into my face and mouth.

The rain kept falling.

We decided to skip Stathisridge, the awful climb that punctuates the first part of Wheatgrass 2.0 like a harpoon in the groin but at the last minute we realized that if we skipped Stathisridge, the Wiley Greek, who lives at the top, wouldn’t see us and would think that we, like he, had decided to spend Sunday as pillow babies.

So we climbed it.

Evens waited for us at the bottom. Kristie and Vinnie decided there were better things to do than pneumonia, so that left four of us. Evens towed us to the reservoir and zipped up it. I hung desperately onto his wheel. The plume of filth continued unabated.

The rain kept falling.

Evens charged up Better Homes, but he went slow enough so that I could hang on. My threshold is his warm-up pace. We got to PV Drive again just in time to see the riders who had cut the course, including Stathisridge, showing intelligence.

The rain kept falling.

I got dropped on the wall going up De Luna and pedaled solo to the Domes. Evens was waiting; he had been there for a couple of hours. I ate some nuts and raisins. We waited for the others and then all descended together.

The rain kept falling.

Evens drilled it through Portuguese Bend and up the Glass Church. I jumped him past Terranea, and our remaining passenger rolled off the back like a spent artillery shell. Evens countered and I clawed on. He eased up and let me sprunt by for the imaginary win. By now I had drunk a liter or more of oily, gritty filthwater.

The rain kept falling.

We turned up Hawthorne and Evens rode away, I guess he was tired of babysitting. I got home covered in muck and soaked to the skin. When I showered a huge bolus of black sludge dissolved and ran out of both my ears, volcanically.

I toweled off and looked out the window.

The rain wasn’t falling any more.

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END

Wheatgrass 2.0

January 6, 2019 Comments Off on Wheatgrass 2.0

Today’s Wheatgrass 2.0 went sooooo well.

Team Origin had a great turnout, with band leader Marco Cubillos, lead guitarist Baby Seal, drummer Kristie, bassist Boozy P., Mel E. on the keyboards, Josh D. on the zither, and Wily Greek flying the variegated Origin colors and blowing a giant Greek conch. Big Orange donated G$, G3, Pornstache, and Abraham M. to the cause; Lolo, Pilot, Alx Bns, and I rounded out the crew.

Wheatgrass Ride 2.0 stats:

This isn’t your grandmother’s Wheatgrass Ride

After our golf course warm-up, where everything was cordial, things got very uncordial as we ascended Stathisridge, one of the worst climbs on the Peninsula. But today’s ride wasn’t about the ride. It was much more about the ride.

No shoutypantsing. No instructionalizing. No complainifying because the pace was too fast or too slow or too well done or too salty or the service was too slow or the discount coupon wasn’t applied or it’s too tight in the balls or one of the eggs was cracked or I changed my mind and wanted the green one or could you take a little more off the side or this makes my butt look big or this color doesn’t match my Garmin.

None o’ that. Because it’s super hard to shoutypants when you are pinned.

And like any good ride, I learned something. What did I learn? That I am a crabby, grouchy old man. As the ride started I cursed Pornstache and his stupid beatbox. Didn’t he know that blaring out jams was the biggest cycling faux pas out there? That no one wanted to hear his music? That the PV denizens would be awoken at the ungodly hour of 9:00 AM with that shit? Most of all, didn’t he realize that with all that music going on, there was no way I could silently and grimly concentrate on all the angry, awful, mean, and unpleasant things coursing through my head as I was being slowly sauteed in a pan of boiling watts?

DIDN’T HE KNOW HE WAS RUINING MY INNER GROUCH?

Then it hit me: Grouchy old people always hate young people who are happy, and happily sharing music. Grouchy old people sit on the front porch and shake their fists at the cat in between embolisms. Grouchy old people never get the chance to be ensconced in the bubble of young, strong, fit, ass-kicking riders who are about to flay you alive then laugh with you over a cup of coffee.

Best course of action seemed to be STFU and pedal. Not only did the music vanish with Pornstache the moment he pressed hard on the pedals, but you know what? I like Barry White anyway.

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END

Photos copyrighted and shit and graciously donated and shit by Origin Los Angeles and Pornstache.

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